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I remember when I picked Jonathan Livingston Seagull for the first time. It was long ago. A thin, square-sized book that it was, with every sentence Richard Bach had me to the skin. It was as if the time had frozen. Although I was too young, I could gather what I had bumped into. It wasn’t a book. It was the edge of the world. Upfront was the dark abyss of all your fears and apprehensions about the life. And somewhere far far ahead a faint light seemed to break in. Right then that day, I dashed into that tiny dot of light, not caring if my way ploughed through the deep void. You see, there is no abyss ever. It is you at either side. Validating the abyss is denying your connection to what is beyond you. Don’t be afraid when they tell you that the abyss stares back at you. It does not know the way to trespass on its own. Right across it stand specks of hopes, dreams, joys pulsating through the spectrum of your being. Transgress a little and you’d see that all the ashes burdening you neve…

Auburn mesh of mellowing leaves and a shade Of mild sun in the sky, isn’t the world shying up for a long quiet? Slow arrival of the dawn, its brisk departure into evenings, I embrace The night with an intense warmth now. Stars seem to photodegrade, their tiny dabs stitching up The cloak of the mists around. The earth has become solemn, the breeze tells. I can sense the fading whispers of trees as a lull Slowly forms upon the hills. Few drifting clouds look for ironies and leave Disappointed. The music from the rivers has turned cold on them.